New Year's Day
by telemetries
Summary: He wouldn't let himself live like he'd been doing. He'd leave; possibly even die. It only takes one person to completely hold him back. Contains two parts. Now complete!
1. Chapter 1

**Missing Persons (New Year's Day)**

(part 1 of 2)

_A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains  
All that man is,  
All mere complexities,  
The fury and the mire of human veins.__ - _William Butler Yeats; "Byzantium"

* * *

**PILLS AT THREE**

Yuki had an empty can of cola crumpled in his hand, but he couldn't muster enough energy to lift his arm and throw it out.

_The bin is less than a foot away. You can do it._

He groaned and gave up on the thought of even trying to attempt anything at all. His head hit his desk and bumped the edge of his laptop, which was missing a few keys. His breath shone in the air and he remembered that he had left his window open — a smart idea indeed, especially in December.

Truth was, he just didn't _care_.

The back of his shoe nicked a thread of carpeting. Rather than remove the thread, he toed his shoes off, though that action alone made his body ache. Yuki ground the heels of his hands into his forehead, itching for a cigarette. A fucking _cigarette_, yes, that was what he wanted, but where was the pack?

Oh, right. In the trash. Well, the dumpster by now, probably.

Yuki groaned and ignored the timer beeping from his wristwatch for five minutes before getting up and going to the bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet and fished out a bottle of anti-depressants, his head aching worse than it had been a while ago.

Time. Time, and medicine. That was what made up his life nowadays. And Shuichi, but Shuichi was oblivious. And even when he wasn't, Yuki wouldn't allow him to bring up that anything was wrong, because that meant that Shuichi needed to Care For Him, and Yuki didn't _want _Shuichi to Care For Him, he wanted him to Fuck All The Way Off. But Shuichi would never listen because he loved him.

Yuki understood that. He loved him in return. He thought he did, anyway.

Anyway, Yuki was a grown man. He could take care of himself.

_...Yeah. That's bullshit. _Yuki chuckled before tilting his head back and letting the capsules slide down his throat.

He looked at his watch. He needed to leave for the hospital in an hour.

_Yeah. Bullshit._

_But it'll do for now._

_

* * *

_

**TEMPORARY AUDIENCE**

"Just when I thought I could take you off of _all _your medication. This is...a bit disappointing, to be perfectly honest."

"Stop telling me the obvious."

Yuki's psychiatrist frowned.

"Eiri, what's going on? You're getting headaches all the time, you're lethargic, you won't eat when you're supposed to, and when you do you eat very little."She on chewed her bottom lip."You're obviously depressed, but I feel like something else is going on."

_Something I'm not telling you? Sure. _

"Well, here's the script," she sighed, handing him a flimsy piece of yellowing paper. "You're guaranteed refills. I want you to come back if there's anything else going on, though."

_No_.

"Sure," Yuki said calmly before practically bolting out of the door. He clutched the script in his hand, crumpling the center. His legs were shaky and he wouldn't stop for anyone, not even the woman with two heavy boxes in her arms who needed help getting into the elevator. His dress shoes looked slightly scuffed and they became muddy as he walked across the lawn outside of the hospital to his car, where no one waited for him.

Shuichi had offered to come with him, of course. And of course, Yuki had told him to just stay home. He didn't want the kid knowing what was up.

He climbed into the car and turned the ignition and sat staring at his vibrating dashboard and wheel for a long time. He wasn't ready to leave and he didn't want to stay. He knew it would feel better if he just didn't have to do anything at all.

But he was a human, and humans had needs. And he needed to get out of this godforsaken parking lot and go home and take a piss and avoid his boyfriend and just sleep. For one good hour, _sleep_. It was all he asked for. If he was lucky, maybe he'd never wake up.

That having been said, he would probably not get any sleep at all that night.

* * *

**COMPROMISE**

"Yuki! Yuki, Yuki, _Yuki_."

Oh Lord, he felt like vomiting all over his shoes. "You should shut up," Yuki grunted, flipping another page of his newspaper, though he wasn't really reading anything at all. The light in the kitchen shone brightly all around, bouncing off of the floor tiles and illuminating Shuichi's face.

At the moment, Shuichi wore a rather tired look.

"But Yuki, what do you want for lunch?"

Yuki looked up. "Christ, _you're _not cooking, are you?"

Shuichi rolled his eyes. "_No_, but Hiro's coming over and he's stopping by a restaurant wants to know if you want anything for lunch."

Yuki blinked. Shuichi looked at him expectantly as he leaned over the counter, hands folded.

"Yuki, you haven't been eating right. Don't think I didn't notice. Now come on, what do you want?"

_You. To go away. _

"Spring rolls are fine with me."

"That's it?"

Yuki had ducked behind his paper, but he looked up again to see Shuichi's face set in an expression that made Yuki's heart lurch. It was a pained look, a squeezing-pulling of his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth, almost as though he wanted to cry and laugh at the same time, but he'd hurt either way.

Yuki didn't_ want _him to _hurt_, for fuck's sake.

"Maybe some eel."

Shuichi smiled, and Yuki felt better about himself.

* * *

**HYPOCRITE**

_Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name._

Yuki pushed the barrel against his temple and watched the cylinder dig under his skin. His finger wasn't tight on the trigger, but his grip was hard all the same.

_Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name_.

He pushed it up, then down, then around, as though it were a toy. His pills were right on the counter but he wasn't looking to have anything to do with them at this point.

It would have been better this way. He should have been dead a long time ago, and he knew it. He should have been long gone, but he sold out and became a romance novelist and subjected his lover to endless torture based solely on his mood and mental state.

More so his mental state than anything else.

Shuichi didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve any of this. Any of his whinging, his guilt-tripping, his surliness, his anger —

_Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name_.

— his anger, none of it. When they made love, it was rough and loud. Very rarely would Yuki allow Shuichi to take control.

The only time Shuichi had ever taken control was on his birthday last year. Yuki had woken up and he wouldn't smile for anything. So Shuichi held him, kissed him, made him feel better, then made him feel worse — although he wouldn't let Shuichi know about that.

No, it was better that he was kept in the dark about a few things.

Yuki stared at himself in the mirror. Disheveled hair, no glasses.

A gun to his head.

_Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name._

Yuki grimaced and hesitantly put the weapon down. He didn't want to meet any higher being just yet. He wasn't in the mood to be judged.

* * *

**TURN AND KEEP LEFT**

If Yuki had a dollar for every time he'd thought of killing himself today, he figured he'd have a solid ten dollars. Maybe a few cents for the thoughts of merely maiming himself.

No money for wanting to live, though.

He didn't count his source of income as means of self-worth. He did not know why he wrote romance novels, of all things. He could have picked any other genre. Maybe he didn't even need to be a novelist. He could have been a fucking fry cook.

But the only real alternative for him was becoming a priest, and he had no interest at all. No, he'd let his brother take care of that nonsense — and even Tatsuha was doing a bad job with that.

_At least he's doing something with his life._

Yuki turned a corner and kept driving. His plan had been to go to the store and buy some cigarettes and a beer, which he did, but he didn't want go back home. The house was empty and he did not feel like being alone.

So he drove. And drove.

The radio kept him company.

He lit a cigarette and stared at the smoke that filtered out of the end, wispy, noxious curls lifting to the car ceiling and disappearing into the fabric, making permanent the smell of Marlboro in the wintertime. Yuki looked outside and watched an old man dust snow off of his front steps. People were throwing out old Christmas decorations.

He took another drag and made up his mind to not give a shit that New Year's was in five days.

* * *

**TO SLEEP (PERCHANCE TO DREAM)**

_Better go down to your marrow-bones  
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones  
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;  
For to articulate sweet sounds together  
Is to work harder than all these. - _William Butler Yeats; "Adam's Curse"

That night, Shuichi was staring at him, one hand curled on his rising chest. Yuki exhaled sharply and felt his heart slowly beating between his lungs. He had a sudden wish that it would stop moving altogether.

So perhaps he was becoming mentally ill at this point. Maybe he was just tired, or maybe his medication was having some sort of weird adverse effect on his mind and body where he suddenly didn't have the will to keep going anymore.

"Yuki?"

_Don't talk to me._

"Yuki, what's wrong? You're breathing heavy."

_Don't talk to me._

"I'm fine. Go to sleep, I'm just...I'm tired," he muttered, fixing his gaze on a certain spot on the ceiling and avoiding eye contact completely. Shuichi breath puffed on his neck, his eyes wide and full of worry.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Shuichi looked at him disbelievingly before turning away to face the opposite direction and lifting the blankets over his shoulder. Yuki didn't move an inch, and eventually let the sound of Shuichi's steady breathing lull him to sleep.

He dreamt of dark creatures, like shadowy tendrils, crawling around in his head, docile and weak, nibbling slowly on his memories. He dreamt of his father, how disappointed he was in him. He dreamt of Shuichi kissing his mouth, then disappearing and leaving Yuki to lose sleep in a world alone, with nothing but burnt pages from his books surrounding him, cinders floating high above.

His bones felt rusty and cold. He thought he was dying.

Yuki woke up an hour later, drenched in sweat, the faint smell of ashes and paper lingering under his nose.

* * *

**ABSOLUTELY ABSOLUTE**

When he wasn't sleeping, he was spacing out — not _daydreaming_, as he had absolutely nothing pleasant or otherwise to daydream about, but simply gazing off into some spot on the wall and thinking of too many things at once, such as his newfound obsession with death and why Shuichi was still talking to him and why Shuichi _wasn't _talking to him and how much his head hurt from these few but sizeable thoughts.

He hadn't slept properly for two days, and he looked like death warmed over, according to Shuichi. Yuki had stopped looking in the mirror lately. All he saw was a train wreck.

Yuki prided himself on having the kind of self-loathing that was pathetic yet ironic and aggressive. He did not mope around and ask for pity and cry and cut himself to ribbons with a razorblade. He much preferred sitting around and brooding and avoiding questions. Just like he always did.

Only, _that _was starting to get to him too. Not what he was doing, but the fact that he _always _did it — all day, every day. Nothing, truly, had changed. Mentally, there were no signs of deterioration. Shuichi had chalked up Yuki's sleep deprivation to his writing, since Yuki allowed no room for any other possible reasoning — by which he meant he had told Shuichi that his writing was the reason and Shuichi had (reluctantly) agreed; something that Yuki was none too reassured about. He knew that Shuichi knew that something was wrong. But he didn't want Shuichi figuring anything out. He didn't _need _to, not _really_. What good would it do if Shuichi knew? He couldn't save him. Shuichi couldn't save him at all. Yuki was convinced, period.

"Yuki? Are you okay in there?"

Despite Yuki's feelings about looking into a mirror, he found himself looking hard into his own reflection, his arms and legs trembling. He met his own gaze and stared himself down, his eyebrows narrowed and his pupils contracted. He had been standing in this bathroom for a good half-hour. His legs had fallen asleep.

_You are just a failure_.

"Yuki? Come on Yuki, I have to pee."

"Use the other bathroom," he replied hoarsely. "I'm gonna be in here for a while."

Shuichi groaned. "Yuki, you jerk! You know I hate using the downstairs bathroom, it's too cold!"

Yuki didn't bother responding and resumed his staring contest when Shuichi groaned once more and stomped down the end of the hallway.

Yuki didn't want to die, and yet he did. Oh God, did he want to. He wanted to be stricken down for everything that had happened to him, everything that he had done to anyone in his life, from Shuichi to Seguchi to his family to himself.

He wanted — he wanted —

For now, he wanted to crack this fucking glass.

Yuki ground his teeth and felt hot tears sting his eyes. He was being _all _kinds of pathetic, and the worst part was that he did not care. He felt his arm lift, his hand form a rock-hard fist as it lurched forward and pounded right into the center of the mirror, so hard that shards embedded themselves into his skin almost right on impact.

Everything seemed to tremble and break in slow-motion: glass flew everywhere, nicking Yuki's face and neck; the bathroom counter was now a shining mess, with glass in the sink and on the floor. His knuckles, no, his whole hand, was a bleeding, shredded, weakened mound of flesh and bone.

He watched the blood drip down his wrist. He ignored the sudden pounding at the bathroom door as his knees gave out from underneath him. Yuki covered half of his face with his bleeding hand and let out a stream of small, quiet chuckling. It wasn't enough to drown out Shuichi's cries of panic and worry, and it certainly wasn't enough to keep Shuichi from kicking open the door, the lock cracking out of place.

"_Yuki_!"

"Yep?"

"Yuki— what — _what did you do_?!"

"What's it look like I did? Hand me a tissue."

"A tissue — a _tissue — _no! Absolutely not! You're getting bandages! Holy fucking shit, what the _hell_?"

"Overreaction much?" Yuki said, removing his hand from his face. Blood trickled down his cheek, and he wiped it away with his sleeve before Shuichi could notice.

"_Overreaction_?" Shuichi said, his voice strangled as he went underneath the sink and grabbed a first-aid kit. "Yuki, _you punched the bathroom mirror._ He opened the kit and retrieved bandages, rubbing alcohol, a pair of tweezers and cotton swabs. "Oh my God, you might need stitches."

"No I don't. The wound's not deep enough."

"Which is kind of _shocking_, seeing as how you pretty much broke the fucking_ wall_ through. Oh my God, Yuki, what is going _on _with you?"

"I was curious. I was bored. I'm angry over stupid things. I don't fucking know."

"Never mind, never mind," Shuichi said, wrapping gauze over Yuki's hand after picking out the shards in his knuckles and swabbing the wound, dipped in foul-smelling rubbing alcohol. Yuki refrained from hissing, though he felt it catching in his throat. He swallowed hard and watched Shuichi carefully and quickly wrap his hand up.

"Don't need stitches...you're so fucking lucky...can't believe this shit...I can't believe you, I just can't _believe _you!" Shuichi shouted, arms flailing. "What were you fucking _thinking_? Never mind, just never mind, don't tell me! No...yeah...no, no, I want you to tell me!"

"Yes or no?"

"YES!"

"I don't know."

Shuichi let out a growl of frustration. "You are such a difficult asshole," he said through his teeth, lifting Yuki up underneath his good arm. "Come on already, come outside. I have to — oh Jesus, this is like, _the entire mirror_...were you trying to kill yourself? Never mind, do what you want, I just want you to be okay —"

Yuki opted to stand there and watch Shuichi hyperventilate and grip his hair for the next ten minutes, a small smile creeping up on his face. He immediately stopped smiling when he noticed his hand, bandaged carefully and lovingly, no blood seeping through.

* * *

**IDIOCY**

This was, by far, the stupidest fucking thing he'd done in a long, long time. The first stupid thing he'd ever done was eat a piece of a raw, writhing, living slug when he was four because someone had dared him to. The second stupid thing was trust the source of his namesake.

He would have preferred to eat a half dozen more slugs than to have to remember _that._

But no, _this_. _This _was utterly, undeniably _retarded_. And yet, he was doing it anyway. The room was empty, save for himself. He wasn't packing a suitcase, or writing a goodbye note, but he was holding the gun in his hands and contemplating it, his car keys in his pocket.

It seemed like a classic scenario: Take gun. Drive to bridge. Park on side. Shoot self on bridge. Die. Ignore parking tickets and rent for eternity.

_Forget Shuichi_.

Thing was, this might be, rather, a _relief _on Shuichi's behalf. Yuki had done nothing but cause him grief ever since they'd met. They hadn't had epic, knockdown, drag-out fights, but Yuki had shoved him aside, neglected him, refused to tell him the truth on more than one occasion. He hadn't really _cared _before, but Shuichi had _made _him care, in the most inadvertent way — with words, rather than actions.

"_You're the only one who makes me cry as much as I do. You are the only one."_

God, Yuki had never wanted to die so badly than right then and there. But that had been two years ago, after a fight over something stupid and insignificant yet seemingly important enough for Yuki to get upset and berate Shuichi for being so naïve and stupid.

Yuki would have blamed his current lethargic and angry state on his lack of medication, had he not already taken his pills a hour before sitting on the bed and taking the gun out of his safety deposit box.

He remembered the good times. But they were blurry as of now; clouded, barely resonant.

_Do what you want...I just want you to be okay._

But Yuki didn't _want _to be okay. If Shuichi wasn't okay, then Yuki sure as hell wasn't okay either.

Then the decision was set in stone: he wouldn't kill himself.

He'd just leave.


	2. Chapter 2

**Missing Persons (New Year's Day)**

(part 2 of 2)

_When I go there, I go there with you._

_It's all I can do. _- U2; "Where The Streets Have No Name"

* * *

**ONE MAN DETERRED**

He was three towns away and it had been three days.

Yuki had taken to living in his rental car and had $400 to his name, not willing to risk any of his funds or credit cards on hotel rooms or other expenditures. He didn't want anyone tracking him down.

He knew it was better this way.

He'd turned off his phone — not had it shut off permanently, but just simply pressed down on the END CALL button until the screen had blinked to black, and then he'd tucked it out of sight. Yuki didn't want to see any text messages or missed calls or voicemail notifications. It would have caused him more pain.

True, it wasn't helping matters now that he _knew _that there were all sorts of angry messages and missed calls and heaps of voicemail just _waiting _for him.

Maybe he ought to turn it on now? Just to see if there was anything for him.

Yuki reached into the glove compartment and took out his phone, pressing down on the END CALL button until a bright white screen glared into his eyes. He waited a few minutes.

He barely flinched when he saw that he had thirty texts—all from Shuichi. Yuki decided to open the last five, just to satisfy his curiosity.

_From: Shuichi_

_12/27/04_

_10:34:24 AM_

_Where are you??!?!_

_From: Shuichi_

_12/27/04_

_12:14:56 PM_

_Yuki, stop it! Answer me, please! Where are you?!_

_From: Shuichi_

_12/27/04_

_1:45:24 PM_

_WHERE ARE YOU?!?!?!?!?!?!!_

_From: Shuichi_

_12/27/04_

_1:55:18 PM_

_Yuki, stop it. Stop not answering my texts. This isn't funny. You asshole! Come home already! _

_From: Shuichi_

_12/28/04_

_5:12:01 PM_

_I swear to fucking God, I'm gonna throw out every single pair of shoes you own and set your closet on fire if you don't get your ass home right the fuck now!!!!! _

The last, uppermost message on the list, was from today. Yuki swallowed and opened it.

_From: Shuichi_

_12/29/04_

_6:34:23 AM_

_Yuki, please just come home. Whatever I did, I'm sorry, okay? I'm really fucking sorry. Please. I love you. Come home already. Please._

Yuki immediately snapped his phone shut and buried his face in his hands.

* * *

**SOUND BARRIER**

"So he just...left? And that's it?" Hiro asked, puzzled.

"Looks that way. Shuichi, please, you're dripping snot onto my carpet..." Seguchi admonished, holding out a wad of Kleenex.

Shuichi sniffled and reached out for the tissue that Seguchi had offered him. Perched on Shuichi's other side was Hiro, who had his arm around Shuichi's shoulder. He looked exasperated, as did Seguchi. Shuichi was simply miserable.

"Why would he leave, though?"

"I-I d-don't kn-know!" Shuichi wailed. "H-he never s-said anything to m-me! He n-never said he was —" he hiccuped, "— unhappy or an-any-anything! _YUKIIIII!_" he suddenly yelled, his voice high-pitched and strained and muffled by his snot and tears.

"Shuichi!" Seguchi snapped, jumping. "_Please_. I understand you're upset, but yelling like that won't bring Eiri back to you. Please, just...sit there, just sit there, and I'll think of something."

Seguchi silently motioned for Hiro to follow him out into the hallway. Hiro looked at Shuichi, then patted his back, leaving him to lay on the couch in the fetal position, his anguished moans quiet and throaty.

Hiro closed the door behind him. "So what do we do?" he asked as soon as he had turned to Seguchi, who was biting his thumbnail. Hiro was taken aback at the sight of his face; normally, Seguchi was calm and collected, his expression usually glowing. Even in the dim light of the hallway, Hiro noticed that he was as white as a sheet.

"I have _no idea_," Seguchi whispered. "I've never known Eiri to run away like this — like _this_, I mean, he's disappeared before, but he'd usually call me after a day or two. But he's broken his bathroom mirror, he hasn't been eating properly — well, he _never _eats properly, but he usually has sweets and apparently he hasn't been eating _anything _at _all —_"

"You think he's suicidal?"

Seguchi stared. Hiro rolled his eyes. "I _know _he's _been _suicidal, but I mean — recently. You think he's...?"

"I don't know," Seguchi muttered. "I simply don't — _know._"

Silence permeated the hallway as Hiro looked at the carpeting and Seguchi stared at the ceiling, listening to Shuichi's muffled sobs through the wall.

"It's all too possible, though."

Hiro looked up and his heart skipped several beats, his fingernails digging into his arms.

* * *

**YOU ARE NOT ALONE**

_I don't want to look at the stars with you_

_until you can look at strangers with me, _

_and smile._ - 1905; "Fall"

Yuki cursed out loud when he saw the first poster on the telephone pole, his stupid face plastered nice and big, his name underneath. He was sure the papers and the nine o'clock news had caught wind of his disappearance, no doubt from Seguchi.

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK_.

He hadn't meant for all of _this _shit to happen!

He lowered himself in the driver's seat of his car, wary that he could be recognized now. Stubble was starting to grow along his jaw, and he felt it, the hairs bristling underneath his fingers. It was a strange texture, soft yet rough. He grunted and folded his arms like a child, annoyed out of his mind at this turn of events. He looked outside of the fogged windows to see blurred shapes of people putting up New Year's decorations, the banners bobbing in the wind and swerving in and out of focus. Yuki turned away and started his car, driving it away from where he'd parked. He was thoroughly surprised he hadn't gotten a ticket.

The missing posters were clear in his mind, as though someone had tacked it right on his brain. A panic slowly set in as he realized that the posters had been on a telephone pole _right near his car_, meaning that someone — Shuichi, Seguchi, or someone else that knew him — had been mere feet away from him last night.

Or maybe it was a false alarm. Maybe the poster had been posted somewhere on the Internet last night, and some of his fans had taken it upon themselves to download, print, and distribute them, determined to find their favorite author in the whole wide world.

_Either way, I'm fucked_.

Yuki kept driving until he saw that there was a beach in the distance, the boardwalk not too far from the intersection. He hit the gas and sped alongside other cars, ignoring the honking and yelling. He did not stop until he reached a building that was on a street that led to the boardwalk.

He parked, turned off the damned car, and got out, gun in his jacket. He limped along the street, hoping to God no one saw him. He walked up the stone steps, the smell of the sea snaking its way into his nostrils. He felt the salt sting his eyes, the sand whisking in the blustering wind and hitting his face and tongue. He spat and closed his mouth, fighting the heaving urge to vomit.

He walked to the middle of the boardwalk, his hands on the wooden railing, and stared out into the ocean, the waves brisk and cold and icy-gray and the waves crashing and bobbing violently. Below him was sand and rock. He slid one shaking hand into his pocket and carefully pulled out his gun, the metal warm and welcoming in his hand.

Die by a beach. How beautifully stupid.

He trembled, his shoes shaking. He wanted to do this—didn't want to do this—he hadn't really_ planned _his death, he just thought he'd _do _it.

"Hey man."

Yuki ignored the voice and held the gun dangerously close to his neck.

"Hey man. Don't do that, man."

Yuki looked down. A disheveled homeless man with ripped pants and a dirty jacket was standing beneath him, looking up, his beard and crinkled eyes glinting even in the gray of the sky.

"Don't do it. It's not worth it."

"And who the fuck are you?" Yuki asked after a moment, gripping the gun even tighter. He pushed it against the side of his head and dug it deep, his finger swiveling around the trigger.

"Alright," the man said, shrugging. He turned his gaze to the ocean. "Alright, man. Do it. But it won't be pretty. And you won't like what happens afterward."

Yuki's grip slackened. He stared out at the distance, which looked as though it was coming ever closer to him. He thought, maybe, if he just did it now, did it right now, didn't look back or hesitate —

_Fuck _him, he couldn't fucking _do it _now.

Yuki breathed raggedly and removed the gun from his jaw. He turned and looked down to see that the homeless man was gone. Swallowing, he placed the gun back into his jacket and walked back to his car.

_You should have thrown it into the ocean._

_Yeah. No. I'm not that brave_.

* * *

**GET GONE**

Shuichi was a mess, to say the very least. He had been sleeping in the same clothes for two days and he hadn't been eating. Depression had fully set in, and Hiro had been to see him every single day, bringing him food and comforting him. Seguchi accompanied him every now and again, but Shuichi preferred it when it was just Hiro. If he couldn't have Yuki, he could at least have his best friend.

"What's today?" Shuichi asked quietly, sniffling.

"The 30th."

Shuichi looked at his hands, which were shaking horribly. He clenched them into fists and buried them into his eyes, his mouth stretching and frowning and squeezing. Hiro sighed and placed his hand on Shuichi's back, rubbing it gently.

"He's not coming back, he's not coming back, why, Hiro, why did he leave me —"

"I don't know, man," Hiro said. "I don't know, but if he ever shows up again —"

Hiro bit back his words. The last thing Shuichi needed to hear right now was a physical threat against his boyfriend.

"If he ever shows up again, what?" Shuichi hiccuped.

"...Never mind."

They sat in silence for a few more moments until Shuichi's phone went off. He darted off of the couch, scrambling into his bag and digging for it until it came up in his hand, small and silver.

"Oh...oh my God," Shuichi said, "Oh my God, Hiro, it's him, it's —"

"Yuki?! Well, pick it up, don't just let it ring!"

Shuichi flipped his phone open and pressed it to his ear, quiet for a moment.

"...H-hello?"

"Kid?"

Shuichi gasped. "YUKI! Yuki, oh my God, Yuki _where are you_, why aren't you home I've been so fucking sick and depressed and my entire body hurts and oh my God, _where are you_?! Why did you leave, why the _fuck _did you leave me here, all alone?!"

"..."

"YUKI! YUKI, ANSWER ME, oh God..."

"Shuichi, I can't tell you where I am."

Shuichi gasped silently. Yuki had actually used his name, for once. "Yuki, _please_!"

"Shuichi, I'm sorry, okay?" Yuki's voice was shaking, and Shuichi felt him losing control. "Shuichi, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry for everything, I'm sorry you're in pain and you're depressed and miserable — but I can't help it, Shuichi, I can't help it — fuck me, fuck this, I fucking can't — Shuichi, I have to end it, I can't do this, I can't _do this to you anymore —_"

"Yuki? Yuki, what the hell are you—what are you saying to me, Yuki?! Look, please, _please _come home, come home to me Yuki, and we can talk about this, we can talk about anything you want. Or if you don't want to talk, it's fine, we can be quiet, just please—please—I miss you so—so much..."

Shuichi broke down, sobbing. Hiro bit his lower lip and crept forward.

"Shuichi, give me the phone."

Shuichi handed it to him, his chest heaving. Hiro took the phone and walked away into the confines of the bathroom. He looked up and saw that there was a large portion of glass that had been punched away.

"Yuki?"

"...Hiro?"

"Yuki, where are you. Please, just come home. Come home, and just...stop this. Shuichi is..."

"I know what he is," Yuki said, his voice cracking. "I know what I've done—what I'm doing."

"Then why don't you — why aren't — I don't get you!" Hiro exploded. "You know what kind of shit you're pulling and yet you continue to pull it anyway? You go ahead and let people down and hurt your boyfriend and your friends? Why don't you just...can't you..."

"I wanted to kill myself."

Hiro stopped short.

"I still want to," Yuki continued, his voice cracking and ragged, muffled over the receiver. "I came so fucking close yesterday. I almost did it. But something's — something's —"

Hiro swallowed. "Why...why are you telling me this, Yuki?"

Yuki was silent for a moment. "I don't know," he finally answered. "Because you're here. Because you're Shuichi's best friend. Because I know you'll want to tell him but you won't because it'll hurt him even more."

"You don't want him to know?"

"I can't hurt him anymore than I already have."

"Yuki, you fucking idiot!" Hiro snapped. "Don't you get it? If you die, that'll put Shuichi in an even worse place than he's in now! Fuck, he just might fucking throw himself in the grave with you! Don't you get it? Don't you..." he swallowed again. "Don't you understand how infinitely _precious _you are to him?"

There was nothing but the sound of wind and silence over the phone, and Hiro fidgeted.

"Yuki, answer me! Please."

"He's better off without me."

Hiro trembled with anger. "Why the fuck did you even call?" he hissed lowly.

"To make sure he was still around."

The line went dead. Hiro stared at the phone in his hand, using all the restraint he had to not break the damn thing in half. He pocketed the phone and leaned against the wall, staring at the large wound in the glass. He could see glinting miniscule shards littered on the counter, just a few of them.

He had to tell someone. He just didn't know how to.

* * *

**DECISIONS**

"Why _now_, of all times?" Seguchi said, his fingers massaging his temple. "Why would he break down _now_? Could Shindou-san have possibly done something to set him off?"

"Don't you dare blame this on Shuichi!" Hiro snapped.

"That isn't what I meant, Hiro-san." Seguchi crossed his legs and tapped the desk. Again, dead silence.

"...So what do we do," Hiro said, shuffling his feet.

"I'm trying to think, although I feel as though there is _nothing _to be done," Seguchi said quietly. "That is to say, we can talk to him all we'd like, and maybe he'll answer, but in the end, it's up to him as to whether or not he'd like to actually come home again."

"But we _can't _just let him do this!" Hiro said. "We can't just stand by — while Shuichi knows nothing — and let Yuki kill himself! We can't do that, it's — it's unfair, and it's cruel. To Shuichi, to Yuki, to his family."

"This is true. But don't you see? It's well out of our reach, in the end of it all." Seguchi pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Hiro sat down, frustrated completely.

"Yuki was probably going to attempt something like this one of these days," Seguchi said quietly. "He has always been troubled, as you full well know. He's always been...frightened, deep inside. Frightened of hurting someone like his mentor had hurt him, frightened of losing a loved one. I believe his logic is that he should just simply beat Death to the punch, rather than stand by and watch a piece of his heart get torn away from him."

Hiro chewed on his lip, listening intently.

"What we can hope for is that he somehow hears the distress through the television and the newspapers, the radio. Let the sound of Shuichi's anguish resonate inside his head, hope for something to drive him back. It'll drive him insane — he will either come home, or..."

Hiro looked up.

"...Or, well," Seguchi said. "Let's not think about that right now."

* * *

**THE ONCOMING STORM**

Yuki was very fucking cold, and he knew he deserved to be so.

Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he was blowing _everything _out of proportion, maybe Shuichi had overreacted. He hadn't seemed like his usual self over the phone, but then again, he'd been in a horrible state for...probably as long as Yuki'd been gone.

Six days now. It was twelve hours to midnight, and then it'd be January 1st. Cheers would be heard from every home, hugs and kisses would be exchanged all over the world, people in New York's Times Square would propose to each other. Everyone would be ready and willing to embrace the new year.

Yuki would probably be dead.

Hiro's words would not stop haunting him, slicing at his memory. _Don't you understand how infinitely _precious_ you are to him? _Yes, _yes_, Yuki understood completely, and yet he did _not _understand at all — why would Shuichi treasure him so much? Shuichi couldn't possibly understand how much he meant to Yuki, and Yuki knew that it was because Yuki rarely let the amount with which he cared actually shine through at any given moment.

_Don't you understand how infinitely _precious_ you are to him?_

_Don't you understand?_

_Why can't you don't you understand?_

Yuki had to end this. Now.

He reached out and opened the glove compartment. Inside were road maps, the gun, gleaming in the light of the car, and receipts. An envelope.

Yuki blinked. He hadn't noticed that before. He reached out and tugged it away from the maps and weapon and looked at it, the face and back completely blank. He held it up to the light and saw scrawled words. Swallowing, he pulled up the unsealed flap and, with shaking hands, carefully lifted the letter from place and unfolded it, beginning to read.

_Yuki,_

_You hurt me so much. You are the only one who can make me cry as much as I do. I hate starting a letter off like that, but it's true. _

_I don't ever want to give this to you. I never plan to. But if you find this, know that I was writing it because I was mad and I wanted to get it out on paper. I wanted to write a song, but I couldn't. You know how that goes. So I thought I'd actually write this out, like a letter, and stick it somewhere where I know you'd probably never find it. (Hiro suggested the glove compartment. I know you never open that, so I thought it'd be a good place.) I could have just kept this to myself, but maybe a little part of me is hoping you'll find this._

_A little part of me is hoping you'll understand._

_Do you remember when we did the print club pictures? And how happy I was? I was so happy, and I could feel that maybe you were happy too, even if you didn't show it. I didn't expect you to. But you know, that _hurts — _that hurts that you don't ever want to appear happy around me. You only make an effort to save me when it looks like you'll lose me._

_I know you love me. I know you care. I hate it that you won't ever tell me. Maybe knowledge is enough, I don't know._

_I just want you to know something, though: while you hurt and hurt and hurt me, I still love you. I still want you, and I still really need you. We need each other, I think, and sometimes you might feel bad for what you do — maybe you don't, but sometimes I think you do. But don't you get it, it's natural to _feel. _It's natural to be sad, and it's natural to be happy, whenever you want to! It's all...a part of what and who you are. You _deserve _to be happy, and you _deserve_ me!_

_I'm gonna end this with a quote I found somewhere: _

_I'm not okay, you're not okay,_

_and that is okay._

_I love you, Eiri Yuki. _

_Shuichi S._

_P.S. I actually wrote this all on my own. Isn't that something? Haha!_

Yuki read and reread the letter several more times, letting each and every word sink into his mind. He thought he might explode from the amount of emotion that was welling up inside of him, and he felt sick just thinking of how stupid and cliché he felt.

But it was how he felt, and he couldn't help that.

He lay across the driver and passenger seats, ignoring the compartment in between that was digging into his hip. His scarf hung over the edge of the seat and he looked at the letter, his eyes stinging.

He brought it to his face and smelled it lightly, and found a trace of Shuichi's scent on the paper, something light and clean.

It hit him then, full in the face like the waves of an ocean, like a slap from a higher power; it hit him in the chest and in the heart, that this — whole — thing — was not worth putting Shuichi through so much pain. Putting _himself _through so much pain.

It wasn't worth it, period.

_Like the old man said_.

Yuki lay there and let the tears come. They burned and they stung, and he relished in the ability to still _feel_. He would cry for ten minutes, feeling pathetic, feeling human, before sitting up and clearing his eyes and starting the car. He looked and saw that he had just enough gas to get back home.

* * *

**WORLD LULLABY**

_All is quiet on New Year's Day._

_A world in white gets underway._

_I want to be with you, be with you, night and day._

_Nothing changes on New Year's Day. _- U2; "New Year's Day"

He listened to the crisp sound of snow crackling underneath his shoes as he let his fingers trail along the concrete wall, his hand still elevated as the wall ended and he made it to the crosswalk in his small, tidy neighborhood, where everyone was inside, perhaps hosting parties or small get-togethers that didn't involve suicidal men that wore ragged coats and scruffy clothes and an unshaven face. His car was parked a block away, in the only free space available.

Yuki felt his chin. The stubble scratched against his skin, but he could barely feel it in the cold. His watch read a little past three in the morning.

_You all should shut the fuck up and go to sleep already_, he thought irritably.

He felt the side of his head. The gun had made its mark there, well against his skull. A circular shape was embedded firmly, Yuki's fingers tracing the shape.

He had dug the gun in his head so fucking far. He could have pulled the trigger. He should have done it.

And he just...hadn't.

And he couldn't, for the life of him, figure out _why_.

But he knew it was Shuichi. He _couldn't_ leave him alone. It made his heart hurt and his eyes sting to even begin thinking of leaving him alone now. In the beginning, he was so prepared, so willing to do this, to just die and leave everything behind. He was a selfish asshole and he didn't care.

He was still a selfish asshole, but...well...it wouldn't actually _hurt _to care, would it? No, he supposed it wouldn't, and it hurt less than the betrayal he would have left Shuichi with. Betrayal, unfinished sentences, things he meant to say —

God, the pain would have been absolutely _unbearable_, even in the afterlife. The letter, had no doubt, changed pretty much everything.

Yuki shuffled along the sidewalk and felt his legs tremble in the cold. He scanned the doors and turned the corner, his back aching. He breathed heavily, his eyes wide open.

He finally found his apartment.

It was hard to move. It was harder still to think. He forced himself to put one foot forward, one foot ahead. His hands were clenched, gloveless, at his sides. He caught a glimpse of himself in a melted puddle of snow and saw that he looked like utter hell.

But at least he wasn't _dead_.

Yuki climbed the steps, his knees creaking slightly. He landed on the front step, and his fingers shook as he lifted his hand to punch in the doorbell.

Nothing. Then footsteps. Then a loud gasp, along with clicking locks that punctured the quiet air.

Shuichi stood there and gazed at Yuki, who did not smile, but extended an arm after five minutes. Shuichi stared at him, then attacked him in a bone-crushing hug, his mouth wrenching open in a loud sob that soon gave way to a broken dam of pent-up outrage and pain, almost certainly akin to the emotions that Yuki had been feeling for the past two days. He felt the sobs break into his skin, felt Shuichi's voice crackle in his neck —

"You asshole, you stupid motherfucking pig of a jerk, how _dare you leave me like this_, how dare you, how dare you, oh my God I love you, I missed you, _WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN —" _Shuichi went on, planting haphazard kisses along Yuki's face and arms, and Yuki merely accepted them, feeling little bubbles of warmth erupt underneath his face. Yuki trembled, then tightened his arms around his lover.

He was so incredibly grateful, thankful, that he had not been turned away. He was thankful that he had not decided to bypass the apartment in first place, kill himself like he wanted to. He was thankful that Shuichi was still here, still willing to be with him.

All of these things put together, and he felt something like life burst into him. He smiled in the crook of Shuichi's neck, knowing that he had almost given up.

Almost.


End file.
